1922 








































Class Il_^:^^^^51 
Copyright M^__'!5,JS^s,__ 

COFmiGHT DEPOSm 



VERSE 



ADELAIDE CRAPSEY 



BORZOI POETRY 
1922 

VERSE, by Adelaide Crapsey 
ITALIAN POEMS, an Anthology 
COBBLESTONES, by David Sentner 
THE SHEPHERD, by Edmund Blunden 
THE NEW WORLD, by Witter Bynner 
THE MASTER-MISTRESS, by Rose O'Neill 
SONGS OF YOUTH, by Mary Dixon Thayer 
COLLECTED POEMS of James Elroy Flecker 



VERSE 

ADELAIDE CEAPSEY 




NEW YORK 

ALFRED • A • KNOPF 

1922 



COPYRIGHT, 1915, 1922, BY 
ALGERNON S. CRAPSEY 

Published, August, 1922 ^ 

6^ 






Set up and printed by the Vail-Ballou Co., Binghamton, N. Y. 

Paper furnished by W. F. Etherington & Co., New York, N. Y. 

Bound by the Plimpton Press, Norwood, Mass. 



MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 



SEP I3iy22 

©CI.A6R17B7 



FOREWORD 

Adelaide Crapsey, daughter of Algernon Sid- 
ney and Adelaide Trowbridge Crapsey, was born 
on the ninth of September, 1878. She died in 
her thirty-sixth year on October the eighth, 19 14. 
Her young girlhood was spent in Rochester, New 
York, where her eminent father was rector of St. 
Andrew's Parish. At fourteen she entered the 
preparatory school of Kemper Hall, Kenosha, 
Wisconsin, from which school she graduated at 
the head of her class, in 1897. She entered Vas- 
sar College the same year, graduating with the 
class of 1901. 

Two years after her graduation she began her 
work as a teacher of History and Literature, in 
Kemper Hall. In 1905 she went abroad and be- 
came a student in the School of Archaeology in 
Rome. The following year she assumed the posi- 
tion of instructor in Literature and History in 
Miss Lowe's Preparatory School in Stamford, 
Conn., but in 1908 on account of failing health 
she was compelled to abandon teaching for a 
time. The two succeeding years she spent in 



Italy and England, working on her Analysis of 
English Metrics — an exhaustive scientific thesis 
relating to accent — which years before she had 
planned to accomplish as her serious life work. 

In 191 1 she returned to America and became 
instructor in Poetics at Smith College. The dou- 
ble burden of teaching and writing proved too 
much for her frail constitution, and in 19 13, 
gravely ill, she was obliged to abandon definitely 
and finally both activities. The rest is a silence 
broken only by the remarkable verses of her last 
poetic phase. 

These are the bare biographical facts in the life 
of Adelaide Crapsey, but it would be an injustice 
to the reader not to attempt to render some sense 
of her personality, all compounded of beauty, 
mystery and charm. I remember her as fair and 
fragile, in action swift, in repose still; so quick 
and silent in her movements that she seemed never 
to enter a room but to appear there, and on the 
stroke of some invisible clock to vanish as she had 
come. 

Although in Meredith's phrase "a man and a 
woman both for brains," she was an intensely 
feminine presence. Perfection was the passion of 
her life, and as one discerns it in her verse, one 
marked it also in her raiment. In the line 

"And know my tear-drenched veil along the grass" 

I see again her drooping figure with some trail of 



gossamer bewitchment clinging about or drifting 
after her. Although her body spoke of a fas- 
tidious and sedulous care in keeping with her es- 
sentially aristocratic nature, she was merciless 
in the demands she made upon it, and this was the 
direct cause of her loss of health. The keen and 
shining blade of her spirit too greatly scorned its 
scabbard the body, and for this she paid the utter- 
most penalty. 

Her death was tragic. Full of the desire of 
life she yet was forced to go, leaving her work all 
unfinished. Her last year was spent in exile at 
Saranac Lake. From her window she looked 
down on the graveyard — "Trudeau's Garden," she 
called it, with grim-gay irony. Here, forbidden 
the work her metrical study entailed, these poems 
grew — flowers of a battlefield of the spirit. But 
of her passionate revolt against the mandate of 
her destiny she spared her family and friends even 
a sign. When they came to cheer and comfort 
her it was she who brought them cheer and com- 
fort. With magnificent and appalling courage she 
gave forth to them the humor and gaiety of her 
unclouded years, saving them even beyond the end 
from knowledge of this beautiful and terrible 
testament of a spirit all unreconciled, flashing "un- 
quenched defiance to the stars." 

This collection of her verse is of her own choos- 
ing, arranged and prepared by her own hand. 
She wrote gay verse in the earlier days before the 



shadow fell upon her, but her rigorous regard for 
unity banished it from this record of the fearful 
questioning of her spirit. 

This "immortal residue" is full of poignancy 
and power. The heart is stricken with her own 
terror at the approach of 

"The despot of our days the lord of dust." 

The book which is her funeral urn will be found 
to hold more than the ashes of a personal passion, 
it contains 

"Infinite passion, and the pain of finite hearts that yearn." 

Claude Bragdon. 

Rochester^ N. Y. 
October 1915. 



PREFACE 

Adelaide Crapsey was, over a term of many 
years, an eager student of the technical aspects 
of English poetry. She died on October eighth 
19 14, after having completed two-thirds of her 
Analysis of English Metrics — an exhaustive sci- 
entific thesis relating to accent — which, years be- 
fore, she had planned to accomplish as her serious 
life work. Though her mind was intensely pre- 
occupied with the technical and analytical aspects 
of prosody, still the creative, artistic side of her 
nature was so spontaneously alive, that she accom- 
plished a very considerable volume of original 
poetry — almost as a by-product of her study in 
metrics. 

In the gay and somewhat insouciant period of 
her early days, she could write finished verse with 
the ease and readiness that the majority of people 
reserve only for the most commonplace of prose. 
I have actually known her to produce the book of 
an acceptable operetta over the week-end! That 
early work is gone. It lives only in the memory 
of those who happened to be near her at the time. 



She tossed It off as the fleeting expression of a 
moment, and took no slightest care to preserve it. 
But several of those early poems stick persistently 
in my mind over the years, and though I have no 
copy and cannot quote them accurately, I still be- 
lieve them worthy of a permanent form. That 
delightful quality of camaraderie, her quick, bub- 
bling humor she retained to the end in conversa- 
tion; the sadder, sombre questioning of her in- 
ner life attained expression only in the poetry she 
has left. 

These poems, of a gossamer delicacy and 
finish, are the stronger for the technical knowl- 
edge behind them. Likewise, her technical work 
possessed the more vigor because it was not the 
result of mere theoretical analysis, but also of the 
first-hand knowledge gained through her own cre- 
ative achievement. In each field she spoke with 
the authority that experience in the other gave. 
Her studies In prosody were too technical for 
comprehension by the lay reader. It Is through 
her creative work that she will be remembered, 
though she herself considered this the slightest 
part of her accomplishment. 

As her study In metrics was astoundingly ob- 
jective and coldly unreflective of any emotional 
mood, so her own poems were at the other ex- 
treme, astoundingly subjective and descriptive of 
a mental state that found expression In no other 



form. They are heart-breakingly sombre; but 
they are true. 

Adelaide Crapsey, by nature as vivid and joy- 
ous and alive a spirit as ever loved the beauty of 
life, like Keats and Stevenson, worked doggedly 
for many years against the numbing weight of a 
creeping pitiless disease. In her last year, spent 
in exile at Saranac Lake, forbidden the strength- 
sapping work that her metrical study entailed, she 
was forced to lie and look into space — and these 
poems grew. Her window looked down upon the 
Saranac graveyard, "Trudeau's garden," she gaily 
called it; but its meaning struck home. "To the 
Dead in the Graveyard Underneath my Win- 
dow," was among the papers she left behind. 

The verse form which she calls "Cinquain" she 
originated herself. It is an example of extrem- 
est compression. She reduces an idea to its very 
lowest terms — and presents it in a single sharp 
impression. 

In spite of the fact that many of these poems 
were left only in their first rough draft, they are 
marvelously perfect. A fastidious distinction 
marks all of her work — all of her life — it was the 
most characteristic feature of a very rare nature. 

Jean Webster. 

Vassar Miscellany 
March 191 5 



CONTENTS 
PART I 

BIRTH-MOMENT, 1 9 

THE MOTHER EXULTANT, 23 

JOHN KEATS, 27 

CINQUAINS 

.NOVEMBER NIGHT, 3 I 

RELEASE, 32 

TRIAD, 33 

SNOW, 34 

ANGUISH, 35 

TRAPPED, 36 

MOON-SHADOWS, 37 

SUSANNA AND THE ELDERS, 38 

YOUTH, 39 

THE GUARDED WOU.ND, 40 

WINTER, 41 

NIGHT WINDS, 42 

ARBUTUS, 43 

roma aeterna, 44 

"he's killed the may . . ." 45 

AMAZE, 46 
SHADOW, 47 
MADNESS, 48 
THE WARNI.NG, 49 



SAYING OF IL HABOUL, 50 

FATE DEFIED, 5 I 

LAUREL IN THE BERKSHIRES, 52 

NIAGARA, 53 

THE GRAND CANYO^, 54 

NOW BARABBAS WAS A ROBBER, 55 

FOR LUCAS cranach's Eve, 56 

THE SOURCE, 57 
BLUE HYACINTHS, 58 

PART II 

TO WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR, 6 1 

THE PLEDGE, 62 

HYPNOS, GOD OF SLEEP, 63 

EXPENSES, 64 

ON SEEING WEATHER-BEATEN TREES, 65 

ADVENTURE, 66 

OH, LADY, LET THE SAD TEARS FALL, 67 

DIRGE, 68 

THE SUN-DIAL, 69 

OLD LOVE, 70 

ah me . . . alas, 7 1 
perfume of youth, 72 
rapu.nzel, 73 
vendor's song, 74 

AVIS, 75 

DOOMSDAY, 76 

GRAIN FIELD, 77 

SONG, 78 

PIERROT, 79 

THE MONK IN THE GARDE.N, 80 



TO THE DEAD IN THE GRAVEYARD UNDERNEATH 

MY WINDOW, 8 I. 
THE MOURNER, 84 
NIGHT, 85 

ROSE-MARY OF THE A.NGELS, 86 
ANGELIQUE, 87 
CHIMES, 88 
MAD-SONG, 90 

MY BIRDS THAT FLY NO LONGER, 92 
THE WITCH, 93 

CRY OF THE NYMPH TO EROS, 94 
CRADLE-SONG, 96 
TO MAN WHO GOES SEEKING IMMORTALIIT, 

BIDDING HIM LOOK NEARER HOME, 98 
THE LONELY DEATH, 99 
LO, ALL THE WAY, 100 
AUTUMN, 10 1 
THE ELGIN MARBLES, I02 
THE CRUCIFIXION, 103 
THE FIDDLING LAD, IO4 
THE IMMORTAL RESIDUE, IO7 



PART ONE 



BIRTH-MOMENT 

Behold her, 

Running through the waves, 

Eager to reach the land: 

The water laps her, 

Sun and wind are on her, 

Healthy, brine-drenched and young, 

Behold Desire new-born; — 

Desire on first fulfilment's radiant edge. 

Love at miraculous moment of emergence, 

This is she, 

Who running. 

Hastens, hastens to the land. 

Look . . . Look . . . 

Her brown gold hair and lucent eyes of youth. 

Her body rose and ivory in the sun . . . 

Look, 

How she hastens. 

Running, running to the land. 

Her hands are yearning and her feet are swift 
To reach and hold 

19 



She knows not what, 

Yet knows that it is life; 

Need urges her, 

Self, uncomprehended but most deep divined. 

Unwilled but all-compelling, drives her on. 

Life runs to life. 

She who longs. 

But hath not yet accepted or bestowed. 

All virginal dear and bright. 

Runs, runs to reach the land. 

And she who runs shall be 

Married to blue of summer skies at noon, 

Companion to green fields. 

Held bride of subtle fragrance and of all sweet 

sound, 
Beloved of the stars. 
And wanton mistress to the veering winds. 

Oh, breathless space between: 

Womb-time just passed. 

Dark-hidden, chaotic-formative, unpersonal. 

And individual life of fresh-created force 

Not yet begun: 

One moment more 

Before desire shall meet desire 

And new creation start: 

Oh breathless space, 

While she, 

20 



Just risen from the waves, 
Runs, runs to reach the land. 

(Ah, keenest personal moment 

When mouth unkissed turns eager-slow and 

tremulous 
Towards lover's mouth, 
That tremulous and eager-slow 
Droops down to It: 
But breathless space of breath or two 
Lies In between 
Before the mouth upturned and mouth 

down-drooped 
Shall meet and make the kiss.) 

Look . . . Look . . . 
She runs . . . 
Love fresh-emerged, 
Desire new-born . . . 
Blown on by wind. 
And shone on by the sun, 
She rises from the waves 
And running, 
Hastens, hastens to the land. 

Beloved and Beloved and Beloved, 

Even so right 

And beautiful and undenied 

21 



Is my desire; 

Even so longing-swift 

I run to your receiving arms. 

O Aphrodite ! 

Aphrodite, hear ! 

Hear my wrung cry flame upward poignant- 
glad. . . . 
This is my time for me. 

1 too am young; 

I too am all of love ! 
1905. 



22 



THE MOTHER EXULTANT 

Joy! Joy! Joy! 

The hills are glad, 

The valleys re-echo with merriment, 

In my heart is the sound of laughter. 

And my feet dance to the time of it; 

Oh, little son, carried light on my shoulder, 

Let us go laughing and dancing through the 

live days. 
For this is the hour of the vintage. 
When man gathereth for himself the fruits of 

the vineyard. 

Look, little son, look; 
The grapes are translucent and ripe. 
They are heavy and fragrant with juice. 
They wait for the hands of the vintagers; 
For a long time the grapes were not. 
And were in the womb of the earth. 
Then out of the heavens came the rain, 
The sun sent down his warmth from the sky. 
At the touch of life, life stirred. 
And the earth brought forth her fruits in due 
season. 

23 



I was a maid and alone, 

When, behold, there came to me a vision; 

My heart cried out within me. 

And the voice was the voice of God. 

Yea, a virgin I dreamed of love, 

And I was troubled and sore afraid, 

I wept and was glad. 

For the word of my heart named me blessed, 

My soul exalted the might of creation. 

I was a maid and alone, 

When, behold, my lover came to me, 

My beloved held me in his arms. 

Joy! Joy! Joy! 

Now is the vision fulfilled : 

I have conceived, 

I have carried in my womb, 

I have brought forth 

The life of the world; 

Out of my joy and my pain. 

Out of the fulness of my living 

Hath my son gained his life. 

Look, little son, look; 

The grapes are ripe for the gathering. 

The fresh, deep earth is in them. 

And clean water from the clouds. 

And golden, golden sun is in the heart of the 

grapes. 
Look, little son, look; 

24 



The earth, your mother, 
And the touch of life who Is your father. 
They have provided food for you 
That you also may live. 

The vineyards are planted on the hillside. 

They are the vineyards of my beloved. 

He chose a favorable spot, 

His hands prepared the soil for the planting: 

He set out the young vines 

And cared for them till the time of their 

bearing. 
Now Is his labour fulfilled who worked with 

God. 
The fruit of the vineyard is ripe. 
The vintagers laugh in the sun. 
They sing while they gather the grapes, 
For the vintage is a good one. 
The wine vats are pressed down and running 

over. 

Joy I Joy! Joy! 

Now Is the wonder accomplished; 
Out of the heart of the living grape 
Hath the hand of my beloved 
Wrung the wine of the dream of life. 

Beloved, 

My little son's father, 

25 



Together we have given life, 
And the vision of life ; 
Shall we not rejoice 
Who have made eternal 
The days of our living? 

Look, little son, look: 

The grapes glow with rich juice, 

The juice of the grape hath in it 

The substance of the earth. 

And the air's breath; 

It hath in it the soul of the vintage. 

Put forth your hand, little son. 

And take for yourself the life 

That your father and your mother 

Have provided for you. 

Joy! Joy! Joy! 
The hills are glad. 
The valleys re-echo with merriment. 
In my heart is the sound of laughter, 
And my feet dance to the time of it; 
Oh, little son, carried light on my shoulder. 
Let us go laughing and dancing through the 
live days. 
For this is the hour of the vintage. 
When man gathereth for himself the fruits of the 

vineyard. 
igo5. 

26 



JOHN KEATS 

Meet thou the event 
And terrible happening of 
Thine end : for thou art come 
Upon the remote, cold place 
Of ultimate dissolution and 
With dumb, wide look 
Thou, impotent, dost feel 
Impotence creeping on 
Thy potent soul. Yea, now, caught In 
The aghast and voiceless pain 
Of death, thyself doth watch 
Thyself becoming naught. 
Peace . . . Peace . . . for at 
The last Is comfort. Lo, now 
Thou hast no pain. Lo, now 
The waited presence is 
Within the room; the voice 
Speaks final-gentle: "Child, 
Ever thy careful nurse, 
I lift thee In my arms 
For greater ease and while 
Thy heart still beats, place my 

27 



Cool fingers of oblivion on 
Thine eyes and close them for 
Eternity. Thou shalt 
Pass sleeping, nor know 
When sleeping ceases. Yet still 
A little while thy breathing lasts, 
Gradual is faint and fainter; I 
Must listen close — the end." 

Rest. And you others . . . All. 
Grave-fellows in 
Green place. Here grows 
Memorial every spring's 
Fresh grass and here 
Your marking monument 
Was built for you long, long 
Ago when Caius Cestius died. 



28 



CINQUAINS 
1911-1913 



NOVEMBER NIGHT 

Listen . . . 

With faint dry sound, 

Like steps of passing ghosts, 

The leaves, frost-crisp'd, break from the trees 

And fall. 



31 



RELEASE 

With swift 

Great sweep of her 

Magnificent arm my pain 

Clanged back the doors that shut my soul 

From life. 



32 



TRIAD 

These be 

Three silent things : 

The falling snow ... the hour 

Before the dawn ... the mouth of one 

Just dead. 



33 



SNOW 

Look up . . . 

From bleakening hills 

Blows down the light, first breath 

Of wintry wind . . . look up, and scent 

The snow! 



34 



ANGUISH 

Keep thou 

Thy tearless watch 

All night but when blue-dawn 

Breathes on the silver moon, then weep! 

Then weep! 



35 



TRAPPED 

Well and 

If day on day 

Follows, and weary year 

On year . . . and ever days and years 

Well? 



36 



MOON-SHADOWS 

Still as 

On windless nights 

The moon-cast shadows are, 

So still will be my heart when I 

Am dead. 



37 



SUSANNA AND THE ELDERS 

''Why do 

You thus devise 

Evil against her ?" "For that 

She is beautiful, delicate; 

Therefore." 



38 



YOUTH 

But me 

They cannot touch, 

Old Age and death ... the strange 

And ignominious end of old 

Dead folk! 



39 



THE GUARDED WOUND 

If it 

Were lighter touch 

Than petal of flower resting 

On grass, oh still too heavy it were, 

Too heavy! 



40 



WINTER 

The cold 

With steely clutch 

Grips all the land . . . alack, 

The little people in the hills 

Will die! 



41 



NIGHT WINDS 

The old 

Old winds that blew 

When chaos was, what do 

They tell the clattered trees that I 

Should weep? 



42 



ARBUTUS 

Not Spring's 

Thou art, but her's, 

Most cool, most virginal, 

Winter's, with thy faint breath, thy snows 

Rose-tinged. 



43 



ROMA AETERNA 

The sun 

Is wtarm to-day, 

O Romulus, and on 

Thine olden Palatine the birds 

Still sing. 



44 



"HE'S KILLED THE MAY . . 

"He's killed the May and he's laid her by 
To bear the red rose company." 

Not thou, 

White rose, but thy 

Ensanguined sister is 

The dear companion of my heart's 

Shed blood. 



45 



AMAZE 

I know 

Not these my hands 

And yet I think there was 

A woman like me once had hands 

Like these. 



46 



SHADOW 

A-sway, 

On red rose, 

A golden butterfly . . . 

And on my heart a butterfly 

Night-wing'd. 



47 



MADNESS 

Burdock, 

Blue aconite, 

And thistle and thorn ... of these, 

Singing, I wreathe my pretty wreath 

O'death. 



48 



THE WARNING 

Just now, 

Out of the strange 

Still dusk ... as strange, as still . . 

A white moth flew. Why am I grown 

So cold? 



49 



SAYING OF IL HABOUL 

Guardian of the Treasure of Solomon 
And Keeper of the Prophet's Armour 

My tent 

A vapour that 

The wind dispels and but 

As dust before the wind am I 

Myself. 



50 



FATE DEFIED 

As it 

Were tissue of silver 

I'll wear, O fate, thy grey, 

And go mistily radiant, clad 

Like the moon. 



51 



LAUREL IN THE BERKSHIRES 

Sea-foam 

And coral ! Oh, I'll 
Climb the great pasture rocks 
And dream me mermaid in the sun's 
Gold flood. 



52 



NIAGARA 

Seen on a Night in November 

How frail 

Above the bulk 

Of crashing water hangs, 

Autumnal, evanescent, wan. 

The moon. 



53 



THE GRAND CANYON 

By Zeus I 

Shout word of this 

To the eldest dead! Titans, 

Gods, Heroes, come who have once more 

A home ! 



54 



NOW BARABBAS WAS A ROBBER 

No guile? 

Nay, but so strangely 

He moves among us. . . . Not this 

Man but Barabbas! Release to us 

BarabbasI 



55 



FOR LUCAS CRANACH'S EVE 

Oh me, 

Was there a time 

When Paradise knew Eve 

In this sweet guise, so placid and 

So young? 



S6 



THE SOURCE 



Thou hast 

Drawn laughter from 

A well of secret tears 

And thence so elvish it rings, — mocking 

And sweet: 



57 



BLUE HYACINTHS 

In your 

Curled petals what ghosts 

Of blue headlands and seas, 

What perfumed Immortal breath sighing 

Of Greece. 



58 



PART TWO 



TO WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR 

Ah, Walter, where you live I rue 

These days come all too late for me; 

What matter If her eyes are blue 
Whose rival is Persephone? 

Fie sole, igog. 



6i 



THE PLEDGE 

White doves of Cytherea, by your quest 
Across the blue Heaven's bluest highest air, 

And by your certain homing to Love's breast, 
Still to be true and ever true — I swear. 



62 



HYPNOS, GOD OF SLEEP 

The shadowy boy of night 
Crosses the dusking land; 

He sows his poppy-seeds 
With steady gentle hand. 

The shadowy boy of night, 

Young husbandman of dreams, 

Garners his gracious blooms 
By far and moonlit streams. 



63 



EXPENSES 

Little my lacking fortunes show 
For this to eat and that to wear; 

Yet laughing, Soul, and gaily go ! 
An obol pays the Stygian fare. 

London, igio. 



64 



ON SEEING WEATHER-BEATEN TREES 

Is it as plainly in our living shown, 
By slant and twist, which way the wind hath 
blown? 



6s 



ADVENTURE 

Sun and wind and beat of sea, 
Great lands stretching endlessly. . 
Where be bonds to bind the free? 
All the world was made for me ! 



66 



OH, LADY, LET THE SAD TEARS FALL 

Oh, Lady, let the sad tears fall 

To speak thy pain. 
Gently as through the silver dusk 

The silver rain. 

Oh, let thy bosom breathe its grief 

In such a soft sigh 
As hath the wind in gardens where 

Pale roses die. 



67 



DIRGE 

Never the nightingale, 
Oh, my dear, 
Never again the lark 
Thou wilt hear; 
Though dusk and the morning still 
Tap at thy window-sill. 
Though ever love call and call 
Thou wilt not hear at all. 
My dear, my dear. 



68 



THE SUN-DIAL 

Every day, 
Every day, 
Tell the hours 
By their shadows. 
By their shadows. 



69 



OLD LOVE 

More dim than waning moon 

Thy face, more faint 

Than is the falling wind 

Thy voice, yet do 

Thine eyes most strangely glow, 

Thou ghost . . . thou ghost. 



70 



AH ME. . . . ALAS. . . . 

(He) 

Ah me, my love's heart, 

Like some frail flower, apart. 

High, on the cliff's edge growing, 

Touched by unhindered sun to sweeter showing, 

Swung by each faint wind's faintest blowing. 

But so, on the cliff's edge growing. 

From man's reach aloof, apart: 

Ah me, my love's heart! 

(She) 

Alack, alas, my lover, 

As one who would discover 

At world's end his path, 

Nor knows at all what faery way he hath 

Who turneth dreaming into faith 

And foUoweth that near path 

His own heart dareth to discover: 

Alack, alas, my lover! 



71 



PERFUME OF YOUTH 

(Girl's Song) 

In Babylon, In Nineveh, 

And long ago, and far away, 
The lilies and the lotus blew 

That are my sweet of youth to-day. 

From those high gardens of the Gods 
That eyes of men may never see, 

The amaranth and asphodel 
Immortal odours shed on me. 

In vial of my early years, 

As In a crystal vial held, 
What precious fragrance treasured up 

Of age and agelessness dlstlU'd. 

Thine hut to give. Give straightway all. 

Yea, straight, mine hands the ointment rare 
In great libation joyous pour! 

Oh, look of youth. . . . Oh, golden hair. . . . 



72 



RAPUNZEL 

All day, all day I brush 
My golden strands of hair; 

All day I wait and wait. . . . 
Ah, who is there? 

Who calls? Who calls? The gold 

Ladder of my long hair 
I loose and wait. . . . and wait. . . . 

Ah, who is there? 

She left at dawn. ... I am blind 
In the tangle of my long hair. . . . 

Is it she? the witch? the witch? 
Ah, who is there? 



73 



VENDOR'S SONG 

My songs to sell, good sir ! 

I pray you buy. 
Here's one will win a lady's tears, 

Here's one will make her gay. 
Here's one will charm your true love true 

Forever and a day; 
Good sir, I pray you buy! 

Ohy no, he will not buy. 

My songs to sell, sweet maid! 

I pray you buy. 
This one will teach you Llllth's lore. 

And this what Helen knew. 
And this will keep your gold hair gold. 

And this your blue eyes blue; 
Sweet maid, I pray you buy! 

Oh, no, she zvill not buy. 

If Fd as much money as I could tell, 
I never would cry my songs to sell, 
I never would cry my songs to sell. 
74 



AVIS 

"Belle Aliz matin leva." 

Avis, the fair, at dawn 
Rose lightly from her bed, 
Herself arrayed. 
Avis, the fair, the maid, 
In vestiment of lawn; 
Across the fields she sped, 
Five flowerets there she found, 
In fragrant garland wound, 
Avis, the fair, at dawn, 
Five roses red. 

Go thou from thence of thy pity! 
Thou lovest not me. 



75 



DOOMSDAY 

Peter stands by the gate, 

And Michael by the throne. 

*Teter, I would pass the gate 

And come before the throne." 

"Whose spirit prayed never at the gate, 

In life nor at the throne, 

In death he may not pass the gate 

To come before the throne" : 

Peter said from the gate ; 

Said Michael from the throne. 



76 



GRAIN FIELD 

Scarlet the poppies 
Blue the corn-flowers, 
Golden the wheat. 
Gold for The Eternal 
Blue for Our Lady: 
Red for the five 
Wounds of her Son 



77 



SONG 

I make my shroud but no one knows, 
So shimmering fine It Is and fair, 
With stitches set In even rows. 
I make my shroud but no one knows. 

In door-way where the lilac blows. 
Humming a little wandering air, 
I make my shroud and no one knows. 
So shimmering fine it is and fair. 



78 



PIERROT 

For Aubrey Beardsley's picture "Pierrot is dying." 

Pierrot Is dying; 

Tiptoe in, 
Finger touched to lip, 

Harlequin, 
Columbine and Clown. 

Hush ! how still he lies 

In his bed, 
White slipped hand and white 

Sunken head. 
Oh, poor Pierrot. 

There's his dressing-gown 

Across the chair, 
Slippers on the floor. . . . 

Can he hear 
Us who tiptoe in? 

Pillowed high he lies 

In his bed; 
Listen, Columbine. 

"He is dead." 
Oh, poor Pierrot. 

79 



THE MONK IN THE GARDEN 

He comes from Mass early in the morning 

The sky's the very blue Madonna wears; 
The air's alive with gold I Mark you the 
way 
The birds sing and the dusted shimmer of dew 
On leaf and fruit? . . . Per Bacco, what a 
day! 



80 



TO THE DEAD IN THE GRAVEYARD 
UNDERNEATH MY WINDOW 

Written in a Moment of Exasperation 

How can you lie so still? All day I watch 
And never a blade of all the green sod moves 
To show where restlessly you turn and toss, 
Or fling a desperate arm or draw up knees 
Stiffened and aching from their long disuse; 
I watch all night and not one ghost comes forth 
To take Its freedom of the midnight hour. 
Oh, have you no rebellion In your bones? 
The very worms must scorn you where you He, 
A pallid, mouldering, asqulescent folk. 
Meek habitants of unresented graves. 
Why are you there In your straight row on row 
Where I must ever see you from my bed 
That In your mere dumb presence Iterate 
The text so weary In my ears: "Lie still 
And rest; be patient and He still and rest." 
I'll not be patient! I will not He still! 

8i 



There Is a brown road runs between the pines, 

And further on the purple woodlands lie, 

And still beyond blue mountains lift and loom; 

And I would walk the road and I would be 

Deep in the wooded shade and I would reach 

The windy mountain tops that touch the clouds. 

My eyes may follow but my feet are held. 

Recumbent as you others must I too 

Submit? Be mimic of your movelessness 

With pillow and counterpane for stone and sod? 

And if the many sayings of the wise 

Teach of submission I will not submit 

But with a spirit all unreconciled 

Flash an unquenched defiance to the stars. 

Better it is to walk, to run, to dance, 

Better it is to laugh and leap and sing, 

To know the open skies of dawn and night, 

To move untrammeled down the flaming noon. 

And I will clamour it through weary days 

Keeping the edge of deprivation sharp, 

Nor with the pliant speaking of my lips 

Of resignation, sister to defeat. 

I'll not be patient. I will not lie still. 

And in ironic quietude who is 
The despot of our days and lord of dust 
Needs but, scarce heeding, wait to drop 
Grim casual comment on rebellion's end; 
''Yes, yes. . . . Wilful and petulant hut now 

82 



As dead and quiet as the others are.'* 

And this each body and ghost of you hath heard 

That in your graves do therefore lie so still. 

Saranac Lake, N. Y. 1914- 



«3 



THE MOURNER 

I have no heart for noon-tide and the sun, 
But I will take me where more tender night 
Shakes, fold on fold, her dewy darkness down, 
And shelters me that I may weep in peace. 
And feel no pitying eyes, and hear no voice 
Attempt my grief in comfort's alien tongue. 

Where cypresses, more black than night is black. 
Border straight paths, or where, on hillside 

slopes. 
The dim grey glimmer of the olive trees 
Lies like a breath, a ghost, upon the dark. 
There will I wander when the nightingale 
Ceases, and even the veiled stars withdraw 
Their tremulous light, there find myself at rest, 
A silence and a shadow in the gloom. 

But all the dead of all the world shall know 
The pacing of my sable-sandal'd feet. 
And know my tear-drenched veil along the grass. 
And think them less forsaken in their graves. 
Saying: There's one remembers, one still 

mourns; 
For the forgotten dead are dead indeed. 

84 



NIGHT 

I have minded me 
Of the noon-day brightness, 
And the crickets' drowsy 
Singing in the sunshine. . . . 

I have minded me 
Of the slim marsh-grasses 
That the winds at twilight, 
Dying, scarcely ripple. . . . 

And I cannot sleep. 

I have minded me 

Of a lily-pond. 

Where the waters sway 

All the moonlit leaves 

And the curled long stems. 

And I cannot sleep. 



8s 



ROSE-MARY OF THE ANGELS 

Little Sister Rose-Marie, 

Will thy feet as willing-light 
Run through Paradise, I wonder, 
As they run the blue skies under. 
Willing feet, so airy-light? 

Little Sister Rose-Marie, 

Will thy voice as bird-note clear 

Lift and ripple over Heaven 

As its mortal sound is given, 

Swift bird-voice, so young and clear? 

How God will be glad of thee, 
Little Sister Rose-Marie! 



86 



ANGELIQUE 

Have you seen Angellque, 
What way she went? 
A white robe she wore, 
A flickering light near spent 
Her pale hand bore. 

Have you seen Angellque? 
Will she know the place 
Dead feet must find, 
The grave-cloth on her face 
To make her blind? 

Have you seen Angellque. . 
At night I hear her moan, 
And I shiver in my bed; 
She wanders all alone, 
She cannot find the dead. 



»7 



CHIMES 



The rose new-opening salth, 
And the dew of the morning saith, 
(Fallen leaves and vanished dew) 
Remember death. 

Ding dong hell 

Ding dong bell 

II 

May-moon thin and young 

In the sky, 
Ere you wax and wane 

I shall die: 
So my faltering breath, 
So my tired heart saith. 
That foretell me death. 
Ding-dong 

Ding-dong 
Ding-dong ding-dong hell 



Ill 

"Thy gold hair likes me well 

And thy blue eyes," he saith, 

Who chooses where he will 

And none may hinder — Death. 

At head and feet for candles 
Roses burning red, 

The valley lilies tolling 
For the early dead: 

Ding-dong ding-dong 

Ding-dong ding-dong 

Ding-dong ding-dong hell 
Ding dong hell 



89 



MAD SONG 

Grey gaolers are my griefs 

That will not let me free ; 
The bitterness of tears 
Is warder unto me. 

I may not leap or run; 

I may nor laugh nor sing. 
"Thy cell is small," they say, 

"Be still thou captived thing." 

But in the dusk of the night, 
Too sudden-swift to see. 

Closing and ivory gates 
Are refuge unto me. 

My griefs, my tears must watch, 
And cold the watch they keep ; 

They whisper, whisper there — 
I hear them in my sleep. 

They know that I must come. 
And patient watch they keep, 
90 



Whispering, shivering there, 
Till I come back from sleep. 

But in the dark of a night, 

Too dark for them to see. 
The refuge of black gates 

Will open unto me. 

Whisper up there In the dark. . . . 

Shiver by bleak winds stung. . . . 
My dead lips laugh to hear 

How long you wait . . . how long! 

Grey gaolers are my griefs 

That will not let me free; 
The bitterness of tears 

Is warder unto me. 



91 



MY BIRDS THAT FLY NO LONGER 

Have ye forgot, sweet birds, 
How near the heavens lie? 

Drooping, sick-pinion'd, oh 
Have ye forgot the sky? 

The air that once I knew 
Whispered celestial things; 

I weep who hear no more 
Upward and rushing wings. 



92 



THE WITCH 

When I was a girl by Nilus stream 
I watched the desert stars arise; 

My lover, he who dreamed the Sphinx, 
Learned all his dreaming from my eyes. 

I bore in Greece a burning name, 

And I have been in Italy 
Madonna to a painter-lad. 

And mistress to a Medici. 

And have you heard (and I have heard) 
Of puzzled men with decorous mien, 

Who judged — The wench knows far too 
much — 
And hanged her on the Salem green? 



93 



CRY OF THE NYMPH TO EROS 

Hear thou my lamentation, 

Eros, Aphrodite's son! 

My heart is broken and my days are done. 

Where the woods are dark and the stream runs 
clear in the dark, 
Eros ! 

I prayed to thy mother and planted the seeds of 
her flowers. 

And smiled at the planting and wept at the plant- 
ing. Oh, violets 

Ye are dead and your whiteness, your sweetness, 
availed not. Thy mother 

Is cruel. Her flowers lie dead at the steps of 
her altar, 

Eros ! Eros ! 

With a shining like silver they cut through the 
blue of the sky 
Eros! 

The dove's wings, the white doves I brought to 
thy mother in worship; 
94 



And I said, she will laugh for joy of my doves. 

Oh, stillness 
Of dead wings. She laughed not nor looked. 

My doves are dead, 
Are dead at the steps of her altar. Thy mother 

Is cruel 

Eros! Eros! 

Hear thou my lamentation, 

Eros, Aphrodite's son! 

My heart Is broken and my days are done. 



95 



CRADLE-SONG 

Madonna, Madonna, 

Sat by the grey road-side, 

Saint Joseph her beside, 

And Our Lord at her breast; 

Oh they were fain to rest, 

Mary and Joseph and Jesus, 

All by the grey road-side. 

She said. Madonna Mary, 

"I am hungry, Joseph, and weary, 

All in the desert wide." 

Then bent a tall palm-tree 

Its branches low to her knee; 

"Behold," the palm-tree said, 

"My fruit that shall be your bread." 

So were they satisfied, 

Mary and Joseph and Jesus, 

All by the grey road-side. 

From Herod they were fled 
Over the desert wide, 
Mary and Joseph and Jesus, 
In Egypt to abide: 

96 



Mary and Joseph and Jesus, 
In Egypt to abide. 

The blessed Queen of Heaven 
Her own dear Son hath given 
For my son's sake; his sleep 
Is safe and sweet and deep. 

Lully . . . Lulley. . . . 
So may you sleep alway, 
My baby, my dear son: 
Amen, Amen, Amen. 

My baby, my dear son. 



97 



TO MAN WHO GOES SEEKING 

IMMORTALITY, BIDDING HIM 

LOOK NEARER HOME 

Too far afield thy search. Nay, turn. Nay, 
turn. 

At thine own elbow potent Memory stands. 
Thy double, and eternity is cupped 

In the pale hollow of those ghostly hands. 



98 



THE LONELY DEATH 

In the cold I will rise, I will bathe 

In waters of Ice; myself 

Win shiver, and shrive myself, 

Alone In the dawn, and anoint 

Forehead and feet and hands; 

I will shutter the windows from light, 

I win place In their sockets the four 

Tall candles and set them a-flame 

In the grey of the dawn; and myself 

Win lay myself straight In my bed, 

And draw the sheet under my chin. 



99 



LO, ALL THE WAY 

Lo, all the way, 
Look you, I said, the clouds will break, the sky 

Grow clear, the road 
Be easier for my travelling, the fields. 

So sodden and dead, 
Will shimmer with new green and starry bloom. 

And there will be. 
There will be then, with all serene and fair. 

Some little while 
For some light laughter in the sun; and lo. 

The journey's end, — 
Grey road, grey fields, wind and a bitter rain. 



100 



AUTUMN 

Fugitive, wistful, 

Pausing at edge of her going. 

Autumn the maiden turns, 

Leans to the earth with ineffable 

Gesture. Ah, more than 

Spring's skies her skies shine 

Tender, and frailer 

Bloom than plum-bloom or almond 

Lies on her hillsides, her fields 

Misted, faint-flushing. Ah, lovelier 

Is her refusal than 

Yielding, who pauses with grave 

Backward smiling, with light 

Unforgettable touch of 

Fingers withdrawn. . . Pauses, lo 

Vanishes . . . fugitive, wistful. . . 



lOI 



THE ELGIN MARBLES 

The clustered Gods, the marching lads, 
The mighty-limbed, deep-bosomed Three, 

The shimmering grey-gold London fog. . . 
I wish that Phidias could see! 



I02 



THE CRUCIFIXION 

And the centurion ivho stood by said: 
Truly this was a son of God. 

Not long ago but everywhere I go 
There is a hill and a black windy sky. 

Portent of hill, sky, day's eclipse I know : 

Hill, sky, the shuddering darkness, these am 1. 

The dying at His right hand, at His left 

I am — the thief redeemed and the lost thief; 

I am the careless folk; I those bereft. 

The Well-Belov'd, the women bowed in grief. 

The gathering Presence that in terror cried, 
In earth's shock, in the Temple's veil rent 
through, 

I ; and a watcher, ignorant, curious-eyed, 
I the centurion who heard and knew. 



103 



THE FIDDLING LAD 

"There'll be no roof to shelter you; 

You'll have no where to lay your head. 
And who will get your food for you? 
Star-dust pays for no man's bread. 
So, Jacky, come give me your fiddle 
If ever you mean to thrive.'' 

'T'll have the skies to shelter me, 

The green grass it shall be my bed, 
And happen I'll find somewhere for me 
A sup of drink, a bit of bread; 
And ril not give my fiddle 
To any man alive/' 

And it's out he went across the wold. 
His fiddle tucked beneath his chin, 

And (golden bow on silver strings) 
Smiling he fiddled the twilight in; 

And fiddled in the frosty moon, 

And all the stars of the Milky Way, 
104 



And fiddled low through the dark of dawn, 
And laughed and fiddled in the day. 

But oh, he had no bit nor sup. 

And oh, the winds blew stark and cold. 

And when he dropped on his grass-green bed 
It's long he slept on the open wold. 

They digged his grave and, "There," they said, 
*'He's got more land than ever he had. 

And well it will keep him held and housed. 
The feckless bit of a fiddling lad." 

And it's out he's stepped across the wold 
His fiddle tucked beneath his chin — 

A wavering shape in the wavering light, 
Smiling he fiddles the twilight in. 

And fiddles in the frosty moon, 

And all the stars of the Milky Way, 

And fiddles low through the dark of dawn. 
And laughs and fiddles in the day. 

He needeth not or bit or sup. 

The winds of night he need not fear. 

And (bow of gold on silver strings) 
It's all the peoples turn to hear. 

"Oh never," It's all the people cry, 

"Came such sweet sounds from mortal hand"; 
105 



And, "Listen," they say, "it's some ghostly boy 
That goes a-fiddling through the land. 

Hark you I It's night comes slipping in, — 
The moon and the stars that tread the sky; 

And there's the breath of the world that stops; 
And now with a shout the sun comes by !" 

Who heareth him he heedeth not 

But smiles content, the fiddling lad; 
"He murmurs, "Oh many's the happy day, 
My fiddle and I together have had; 
And could I give my fiddle 
To any man alive f* 



io6 



THE IMMORTAL RESIDUE 

Wouldst thou find my ashes? Look 
In the pages of my book; 
And, as these thy hand doth turn, 
Know here Is my funeral urn. 



107 




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